In Which England Falls
by wanderingmind911
Summary: Mrs. Hudson is on vacation, leaving her granddaughter in charge of 221B. Because honestly, how hard is it to babysit a man child who leaves fingers in your kitchen, wanders into bathroom while you're showering, and eats brownies that may or may not have drugs in them? Meant to be pure fun. A series of one-shots. I'm opened to suggestions.
1. Chapter 1

**This is meant to be pure, unadulterated fun, with some semblance of a plot thrown in. Enjoy.**

**Chapter One**: You Are Not Mrs. Hudson

Erin stared dismally at the cramped, empty room that was 221C.

This is where orphans come to die at the hands of a serial killer dressed like a clown. And it's not even the joker, because even he would kill himself in this room.

_I doubt Anne Frank would hide here. In fact, she'd probably beg the germans to come take her._

_I'm going to hell._

It was either the room where dreams came to suffocate slowly, or Mrs. Hudson's small flat. As much as Erin loved her grandmother there was a peculiar, geriatric odor hanging around the bed. The smell of old people was not exactly a scent she was willing to adopt.

Also, she found what may or may not have been a vibrator in one of the drawers.

"Mrs. HUDSON!"

Erin tilted her head upstairs.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

_That must be Sherlock._

"MRS. HUDSON!"

_Grandma told me about him. Probably should see what's going on. Maybe he killed someone and has to store the body down here._

Erin wandered into the upstairs flat. There on the couch was a tall, lanky man in a bathrobe. It was three in the afternoon, and he was still in his pyjamas. The only person Erin knew to stay in their pyjamas that long was a drunk uncle, who liked to shout profanities at the TV. Which, as it happened, was exactly what Sherlock was doing. The flat itself was littered with books, papers, and other miscellaneous items.

_Oh God. They're hoarders. I'm living in a flat with homosexual hoarders. They're going to collect two more victims and conduct a human centipede experiment on us_.

_Please let me be the lead._

Tentatively, she knocked on the wall. "Hello?"

Sherlock's head rose slowly. His eyes widened at the sight of Erin. In a flash, he practically leapt across the room like some excitable, large dog. Erin staggered backward.

Sherlock leaned in closely, his nose merely centimeters from her face.

"You are not Mrs. Hudson."

Erin shook her head, slowly.

Sherlock squinted. "I called Mrs. Hudson."

"She's on vacation," Erin answered slowly. "My name is..."

The detective leaned in even closer, causing Erin to stop mid sentence. She could smell old tea on his breath. "What have you done with her?"

"Nothing! She's doing the whole Eat, Pray, Love thing. So, Italy. I'd imagine."

Sherlock brushed passed her. "MRS. HUDSON? MRS. HUDSON!"

Erin ran after him. "She's not here!"

_Oh God I'm going to wind up dead in that room. I don't want to die in that room! It's awful!_

Sherlock proceeded to barge into Mrs. Hudson's flat. He knocked over Erin's boxes, rushed into the bathroom, and came out looking very angry.

"Why is Mrs. Hudson gone?" He demanded.

"Well," Erin began, in the slowness, knowing full well this explanation could very well save her life. "She wanted to get out of London for a while..."

"It was rhetorical question," Sherlock snapped. He looked around the room, and then at Erin.

Before she could speak again he said, "You are obviously a late in life granddaughter. 24. Student. MED student. Been living in America given your lack of an accent. No boyfriend...ever. Take care of your body, though. Coffee addiction..."

"Sherlock?" A short man wandered into the flat, looking confused.

_That must be John Watson, then. The normal one. Or the one who lures the orphans into 221C._

"What's going on here?"

"Mrs. Hudson has been kidnapped," Sherlock replied casually.

Erin's jaw dropped. "NO! She's on vacation!"

"You are clearly here to lure me and John into a false sense of security," Sherlock explained methodically.

"I am not!" Erin shouted. "Wait, what are you doing? Stop...STOP!"

Sherlock lifted Erin, and carried her to the door. The consulting detective practically threw her out onto the street.

"Sherlock you can't-"

The door slammed shut ending the doctor's protests. Erin stood outside, shocked. She pounded her fists on the door.

"Can I at least have my things?"

"NO!" was the resounding answer from within.

Erin kicked the door. "You're PSYCHOTIC!"

The door opened, and Sherlock peeped his head out. Firstly, "I'm a high functioning sociopath and I can't afford your stupid to infect the flat."

"That's two things."

Sherlock glared at her.

Once more, he began to slam it shut, but Erin stretched her arm out, thus catching her forearm between the doorpost and the door itself.

And that's how Sherlock got a new, amputated arm to experiment on.

Just kidding. But it did really fucking hurt, enough for Erin to scream and alarm the entire street, and cause Mycroft (who was watching the entire affair through his secret cameras and CCTV), to bow his head into his palm.

Thus, Erin began her first day as 221B's landlady.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: **In Which Erin is Outsmarted by Most Everything

A week after moving in, Erin stormed into the kitchen. Sherlock had not so much said a word to her, although the landlady felt like she was constantly under his surveillance. Most reasonable people would allow this temporal peace to go on. After all, what good could come of picking a fight with a man who accused you of kidnapping an old woman?

Erin, however, was not reasonable.

"You bruised my arm. Apologize."

Sherlock snorted, not looking up from his microscope. "I did not bruise your arm. You did so yourself when you stuck it through a shutting door."

"A door that you slammed on my arm!" Erin shouted.

Sherlock raised his head. "Again, who stuck their arm through the door?"

"Who slammed the door on my arm?"

From the living room John Watson gave an audible groan.

"You knew it was closing," Sherlock snapped. "It's not like I grabbed your arm and forced it through."

Erin raised her hands in exasperation, only to grab her right arm in pain.

Sherlock snorted. "Idiot."

The new landlady of 221B did not stay to argue any further. Instead, she stormed out of the flat, seething.

As she left Sherlock shouted after her, "While you're out get some milk! And don't slam the door on your arm!"

"You'll be solving your own murder soon if you don't shut the hell up!" Erin retorted, knowing full well that her insult made as much sense as deciding to stay in a flat with a man who kept body parts in a fridge.

_I'm just going to have a drink. Or six. And maybe wind up dead from intoxication. We'll see who's sorry then!... It won't be Sherlock. He'll use my remains for an experiment. Damnit._

Halfway down the street, a mysterious black car drove up to Erin. At first, Erin took no notice. But after a few blocks she realized the luxury vehicle was following her.

_Great. Here it begins.. He's sent someone after me They're going to lock me in that room and I'm going to be chopped up into little pieces._

Scared, Erin ducked into the nearest coffee shop.

The moment she stepped inside, she realized something was utterly wrong. Mainly, the entire cafe was empty, except for a well dressed man sitting at a round table. He had an umbrella, despite the moderately sunny weather.

"Sit down, Erin," he said, as if he'd been expecting her all along.

Erin turned, and tried to open the door. It was locked. She banged on the window. No one took noticed.

_Why the hell do I keep getting bested by locked doors and well dressed men?_

Begrudgingly, Erin took a seat opposite of the strange man who was smugly looking at her.

_Maybe getting raped will be better than winding up in Sherlock's fridge. _

"Who are you?" She asked, because Erin had seen many a-thriller movie, and that seemed to be the standard first question, shortly followed by what do you want, and then a chase scene.

Given the slight bulge of the man's stomach, however, Erin decided there would be no chase scene.

"I'm Mycroft. A... friend of Sherlock Holmes," the man said carefully.

Erin snorted. "Not likely."

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. "I gather you have recently been temporarily employed as the newest landlady of 221B Baker Street."

"Who wants to know?" Erin asked, still using standard thriller banter.

"I do," he replied. "I am quite interested in the going ons of Sherlock activities and life. I need someone to look after him."

The man gave Erin a once over. "However...perhaps I have chosen the wrong person for the job."

Erin's eye brow furrowed. "What do you mean... chose the wrong person? I was already living there. You haven't asked me to do anything!"

"That's just it," the mysterious Mycroft sighed. "It takes a person of a certain...caliber to spy on Sherlock Holmes. And quite frankly I think you're lacking the necessary qualifications."

"How hard could it be?" Erin demanded. "I live there."

At this the man sneered. "You're willing to spy on Sherlock, and you haven't even asked me who I am. Or why. This is a test of loyalty to my brother. Clearly, you are not loyal in the least. I'd usually have you removed but given your lack of intelligence..."

"Lack of intelligence?"

"...and your inability to lie..."

"WHAT?"

"...and otherwise incompetence I think it's safe to say you are not a threat."

Erin stood abruptly, knocking over the chair. "I will show you threat! I'm the biggest threat you came across!"

She stormed over to the door, and tried to thrust it open, only to realize it was still locked. Erin jiggled the knob aggressively. Nothing.

"You have to push the door open," Mycroft gently informed.

Erin leaned on the door. It opened easily.

Dramatically, she looked over her shoulder. "This isn't over."

"It never even began," Mycroft sighed as she marched down the street.

* * *

Once she arrived at Baker Street, Erin immediately went up to the B flat.

"Look," she said to Sherlock, who was still sitting at the lab, "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot..."

Sherlock sniffed. "Lavender. Bitter orange note. Silver Moon. You have hints of an exclusive men's cologne that went out of production three years ago. Only one man still wears it." He looked up at Erin, glaring. "You've seen Mycroft."

"What?" Erin gasped. "I...well yes. He asked me to spy on you but..."

"And you accepted," the detective said, frowning further.

Erin crossed her arms. "And how do you know that?"

Sherlock smirked. "Because you just told me."

Once again, Erin found herself locked out 221B, banging on the door with her good arm.

A phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

**And you thought you could spy on him. -M.**


End file.
